Cutting Board

Tiles seriated from my life,
the collage of cerebral ceramic shards,
dicing up my clay of trust
by the vile chefs who prepared abuse’s casserole,
sealed over my wounds and scars,
a durable bandage spread as a shield
upon the cutting board of my heart,
allowing my soul to accept
a divine entrée that would nourish and replenish
what past bad gourmet cooks
sought serve for my essence,
and bake me in self-hate’s oven.

Their voices still mutter their wicked recipes,
seasoning with guilt and shame,
as the salt for the cookbook of my day,
inspiring images of hell’s take out.
But I hold onto the Lord’s china of grace,
unwilling to let their chatted destroy my appetite,
knowing they will never stop visiting,
invisible dinner companions
ready to taint any meal.